


Pissy Snow

by Psuedorabbit



Category: Death Note
Genre: Im done goodbye, M/M, Matt has a niccotine addiction, Matt is angry and sad, Mello leaves matt, This is so fuckin depressing, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psuedorabbit/pseuds/Psuedorabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello leaves Matt. Matt is left with the devastation of it all, and he's angry. He's sad. He wants to piss in other lover's tea, but he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pissy Snow

Matt has a knack for forgetting the important parts of the story he's become trapped in and needs to start reminding himself more often.

No it's just the truth and he's realizing more with these passing days. Take a look from the outside is really what he needs to do. Just look and watch and he'll see that it's really no big deal whether these feelings of his are returned because it happens to everybody and he'll survive whatever happens. From where he stands, he knows what he must and must not do and he's going to abide by those exact rules if he want to keep things safe. It's life. Mello may be Matt's first love but he will not be his last. The red head has much more in his life to figure out and that does not include the obvious.

And mother was right.  
The world does not begin and end with the letters that make up Mello's name because while Matt is falling farther, he is also backtracking on the path to progress within himself and he cannot love one who suffers while he too, suffers because then Matt will give Mello what he needs and more than that. The energy that Matt would use to heal himself would go completely to Mello and the latter would be left needing repairs.

Six in the evening with darkness like midnight. Worn boots trudging along into pissy snow, pale nail bitten fingers and hands shoved deeply into pockets. He's so sick.  
Breathes once; cycle of air leaving cracked lips in a smokey fog. He curses himself for ever loving Mello; balled up tissues finding their way under his nose, wiping disgusting snot away.

He doesn't have the energy for a drink, barely able to put the end of a smoke to his lips and drag inward with this mouth. The nights where Matt didn't sleep cross his dulled, gray mind. The fingers holding the lighter recall passing over Mello's skin in slow ways, rough and fast ways. All past ways now. Inhale and the smoke climbs down his throat and clings to his lungs with terribly sharp claws; brings tears to his eyes with a fit of coughs. He doesn't know where he really wants to go, just craves to be numb enough to forget his voice and not feel his own breathing body for a few hours. Days, preferably.

He's so sick of love, really. In his best opinion it should just be called poison. Horrible pattern, Matt notices his downfall everytime he's in contact with a horrid thing. Scoffs audibly to no one and everyone. Laughing and mocking, cringing and gagging at everyone having the time of their lives being in love. He'd love to piss in their morning tea and give them all a piece of this warped world. But he will not involve himself in useless confrontation with strangers. He prefers to busy himself with the flick of the lighter and swallow a little more smoke while he can still comprehend it.

Numbing himself is all he knows because when he's aware of his surroundings, he remembers everything. The way the blonde's body curved in his sleep, how he drank his tea. One, two, three spoonfuls of sugar. Stirred and served boiling. The way Mello made him feel so alive; remembers the life he injected into Matt's pulsing blue veins. When Mello stopped poking him with needles, he started to die again.

It's blurry. Heartbeat heavy and muffled in his ears, boots still weigh down his feet and fingers lift like dead weight to run through greasy hair. Matt's tongue dry and only tasting the burnt paper and stale smoke that pushed him onto the bed and lulled him to sleep. Days are losing their meaning to him, time is just something that used to be. it's only night and day now; if even that.

He wonders how Mello is doing and immediately regrets it. Submerged memories bubble and surface in his mind and he's not enough of himself yet to try and drown them again. Mello's probably doing well, he thinks. Thinks as he gets to his feet and walks to the darkened kitchen, fingertips ignoring the flick of a light switch and dying eyes avoiding numbers on a cooking appliance. Matt wishes he hadn't woken up. Or at least, woken up to this being a dream. A dream formed in the mind of a sadist who gets off from boys with shattered hearts.

Is waiting necessary? Repetitive tapping of a middle finger leaves behind prints on a tabletop, paper rolled and stuffed as it sits in front of him. He has unplugged the clocks and when the power went out, he did not bother fixing the time. Now, it is always 12:00am. Flashing. Waiting is very much necessary. Gives him some sort of control and makes him feel less like an addict. Is that what he is? That is what Mello called him. Mello called him many things. Matt decides waiting is unnecessary. Maze of finger prints decorate the lighter where he makes contact and when it flicks, his eyes glisten. First poll is taken steadily, exhaled hesitantly. The second is shaky. He looks at the flashing numbers against his will, still 12:00am. He doesn't remember breaking. Smoke slips from his mouth when he lays onto his back, drips like an airy waterfall and he pretends to count the indents of the ceiling pattern when he begins to cry.


End file.
